


i know not how oft

by jtjenna (pornographicpenguin)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Erejean Week 2015, M/M, Punching, Trans Eren Yeager, Trans Male Character, general pretension in the writing style uhm, multiple reincarnation, sorry - Freeform, there are way too many warnings to put in the tags so please check the author's note before you read, there is so much punching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3663894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pornographicpenguin/pseuds/jtjenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the second time he meets jean, his body is wrong, it's raining, and jean threatens to sue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know not how oft

**Author's Note:**

> happy erejean week, everyone!
> 
> (this fic is not especially happy. i'm sorry.)
> 
> first off, warnings: eren experiencing general body dysphoria and misgendering, suicide mentions, unsafe binding, dubious consent (there's no actual non-con, but the model of consent used here is definitely not the one you want to be using), and a few instances of jean and eren equating genitals to gender and other not-so-correct things as they both try to navigate the complicated maze that is gender.
> 
> secondly: i'm cis, and this comes from a place of respect. in this fic, eren thinks and says a lot of things that are not healthy or helpful about himself and his gender, but these things aren't meant to reflect my own viewpoints. i've tried my best to make sure they come across as being pretty awful and unhealthy, but if there's anything in here that seems wrong/offensive/otherwise incorrect OR something else i should warn for, please tell me so i can try to fix it.
> 
> thirdly: this is a section of a much, much longer multiple reincarnation au that i am currently working on, and as i'm taking this project kind of seriously i would really appreciate any concrit anyone is willing to offer! thanks!
> 
> fourthly (and finally): please don't let all the tags and warnings scare you away! this fic has a pretty happy ending, i promise! :D
> 
> hope you all enjoy!

 

the bar is filled with smoke.

normally, that wouldn’t bother eren so much, but it is today.  it’s scratching at his throat, lingering in the bottom of his lungs, and it kind of makes him want to rip his own chest out.  or maybe that’s not the smoke, but the itching feeling of being so, so close to finding someone, being in the same city for sure.  eren hadn’t been able to find anyone all day.  but he’s close, so close it’s starting to make his head hurt.  someone’s here, though -- eren can feel it.  he’s been running around the city all day with absolutely no luck.  if eren didn’t desperately, desperately hope otherwise, he’d be ready to guess that they just don’t want to be found.

eren slouches against the counter, taking another sip of his drink.  normally something like this would relax him -- the crush of people, the noise, the hands against him, the bodies, the low thrum of energy.  but now it’s just annoying.  he sighs.

the chair next to him creaks heavily as a body comes crashing into it.

hey there.

oh.  the guy had been sitting.

what’re you doing, pretty lady?  the man’s speech is slurred with the patent sibilance of obnoxiously drunk people.  he reaches an unsteady hand over to brush eren’s bangs out of his eyes.

i’m a guy.  eren grinds his teeth together, something inside him grating harsh and rough.

the drunk guy smiles, his teeth stained a dingy, off-yellow color.  you sure?  you really look like a girl to me --

an open palm presses into his lower back.  eren throws the punch without a second thought.

his knuckles collide with the guy’s cheekbone, enough force in the blow to tip him out of his chair and send him crashing to the ground.  ow!  what the fuck?

eren stands, pressing the heel of his boot into the guy’s jugular, channelling a particular superior of his who had once done just the same.  i’m not a girl.  he presses a little harder.  and i can beat you up.

the guy blubbers, floundering under him.  eren frowns.

hey!  what the fuck?  a different guy, from the back of the bar.  eren can’t see him clearly through the smoke, just hear his angry tone of voice, the vague outline of his shoulders.  he’s so far away eren doesn’t even care, hardly takes notice -- until he’s right up in eren’s face, making a grab for his shirt collar --

a pause.  instead he goes for eren’s hair.

eren knees him in the balls -- again, it flows out of him like a reflex.  he falls at eren’s feet before he can even get close.

.

eren huddles under the tiny awning provided by the bus station.  the wind blows rough and wild, rushing past his ears, whipping his hair into irritating tassels that sting his eyes.  he buries his nose in the collar of his sweater.

there are little flecks of water in the air, as well.  not enough that eren would call it rain, but -- he bounces up and down, hopping from one foot to another -- it’s enough that he’s going to get wet and very cold if he’s here much longer.  eren digs his thumb into the seam of his pocket.  where's the fucking bus?

from down the street, a voice approaches.  eren doesn’t have to hear him for more than half a second to peg him as arrogant, that lilt to his voice that reeks of overconfidence.  eren doesn't know the guy, but it's everything on top of him:  the rain and the bruise throbbing under the skin of his shoulder, his lungs only expanding halfway, the idiots in the bar, the little pinpricks of pain where his hair slaps his face and tangles in his eyelashes and the grating twisting, the spinning pull inside of him, and then there's this asshole with the pretentious hand movements in the corner of his eye and eren turns on his heel and punches the guy clean across the nose.

the guy stumbles back.  'what the fuck?!'

eren blinks.  a puny smear of blood is blown off his knuckles by the stingingly cold flecks of rain.  he knows that voice.  

'jean?'

'jesus _christ_!'  he's clutching the bridge of his nose, blood dripping out of his nostrils hot and red in the overcast moonlight, off-yellow streetlamps.  'what the /fuck/ -- '  he looks up at eren, his eyebrows pulled down into a tight line.  a little notch forms between them.  'you can bet i'll fuckin' sue you, asshole -- '

eren steps forward, reaching forward to clasp jean's shoulders.  'jean!'

'don't fucking _touch_ \-- '

'jean!' eren cuts him off, shaking him by the shoulders.  'shut up for a goddamn minute!'

jean pauses, pulling his hand away from his nose.  blood dribbles down his upper lip, and his eyes go comically wide, like something he’d see on a dead fish.  'eren?'

'yeah!' eren shouts.  there's someone standing next to jean, stuttering out weird butchered platitudes.  his face fades into the background as eren grips jean's sleeves between his bare fingers, the slick material of his coat --

jean punches him in the eye.

‘ow!’ eren shouts.  a car drives by, sloshing muddy water on his ankles.  ‘dude, what -- ‘

‘what the fuck, eren!?’ jean shouts just as loudly.  the guy who had been standing next to jean nervously shuffles away down the street, eren can see with the one eye that’s not cradled in his hand.

eren grips jean by the collar and slams their lips together.

teeth click against teeth, slashing across lips.  jean’s stubble, five o’clock shadow, scrapes eren’s chin and cheeks, blood smearing across his nose.  ‘holy fuck,’ jean slurs into his skin, almost indistinguishable from the disgruntled murmuring of the one or two passersby.  

and then he’s tugging at eren’s sleeve, gripping him around the wrist.  jean pulls him down the street, and eren follows.

.

jean presses eren into his apartment, his ankle clipping the edge of the front door, comes crashing through the doorway with the heel of his hands pressing just under eren’s collarbone, slamming him into the wall of the front hallway with a decisive _thud_.  the door slams shut with a noise that sounds like a crash, locks with a clunk, jean’s left him alone leaning against the wall unable to catch his breath

‘this way.’  jean tugs at eren’s sleeve again, pulling him backwards, past the living room, the bathroom, into the bedroom where he’s pressed into the bed, his knees hitting the footboard and buckling under the pressure, he’s staring up at the ceiling.  eren has no idea where he actually is his head spinning under the popcorned pattern of jean’s walls.

there are hands at his ankles, calves, stroking the inside of his knee through the rough material of his jeans.  ‘you okay?’

jean’s on his knees, head resting a few inches above eren’s left thigh.  the sharp spike of _terror_ eren feels comes totally by surprise.  ‘i’m fine.’

a hum, and then jean’s pulling at the hem of eren’s sweater, climbing up over his hips, yanking the material over his arms, his head, the hem of eren’s shirt pulled over his chest and jean lays eyes on the bandages stretched over --

the pause makes every frustration eren had been pushing down before return back in full force, like sandpaper grating against his insides.  ‘oh,’ jean says.  eren wants to crawl inside of himself.

‘god, _shut up_ ,’ eren says, pushing up at jean’s shoulders, rolling him off eren’s hips.

‘eren, it’s not -- ‘

‘it’s _whatever_.’  eren shucks his shirt back down, hiding the tan stretch of the bandages compressing his chest, so tight little white fibers glitter through.

‘eren, i don’t _care_ \-- ‘

eren’s already standing up, he knows that, he knows that but jean’s eyes are on him, the curve of his cheeks, the line of his neck, the jut of his hips and it makes eren want to _scream_ \--

a hand catches his wrist.  ‘get back over here, dumbass.’

eren breathes, but only kind of.  he collapses back on the bed not unlike a limp doll.

‘i don’t fucking care, eren, i mean -- you know me, and -- i’m born as a chick like half the time anyway, i just wasn’t -- ‘ an arm twisting around his waist, tugging him closer, ‘expecting that.’

‘it’s _whatever_ ,’ eren says with an uncomfortable force, smashing his lips to jean’s in what’s less of a kiss and more of a trainwreck, jean pushing at his shoulders, gasping eren’s name in any breath he manages to steal.

‘eren, come on!’  jean slams him back into the mattress, tugging at eren’s shirt again and pulling it over his head, his head.  hot breath in eren’s mouth, over his skin, and then jean’s kissing his neck, teeth scraping along his jugular, his collar bone --

jean’s hands over his chest.  ‘should i -- ‘

‘it’s whatever,’ eren says.  jean apparently takes this as a yes because he snaps the hook open.  eren feels his lungs expand to a volume they haven’t reached all day, and he exhales with a degree of relief.

next jean tugs at eren’s waistline, the belt holding up eren’s unusually loose jeans, ‘you know you really shouldn’t use bandages for that -- ‘

eren groans, burying his face in an arm.  ‘shut _up_ , jean.’  he sits up, fisting a hand in jean’s hair -- not an undercut, this time -- leaving the mess of elastic and fabric on the bed behind him, his breasts sagging uncomfortably against his chest.

‘you could like -- fuck up your lungs, and -- ‘

a little dot of plastic flies across the comforter, clinking against the wall.  eren deliberately snaps the uppermost button off jean’s shirt.

‘eren what the f -- !‘

‘told you to shut up,’ eren murmurs, pressing his teeth to jean’s collarbone.  he gets a kind of cruel satisfaction out of jean’s moan.  ‘shut up,’ eren says just one more time.

‘ _fuck_ you,’ jean spits at him, but eren rolls them so he’s looming over jean, resting on his knees and fumbling over jean’s zipper and pants button before he’s even bothered with his shirt.

‘eren,’ jean whines, stilling his hands, all high-pitched and bitchy.  it grates on eren’s nerves.  ‘calm the fuck down.’

always with the foreplay.  he bats jean’s hands away, definitive and annoyed, returning to the buttons of jean’s shirt.  they pop undone one by one, slowly enough to drive eren mad, his teeth grinding of their own accord, his knees so tightly gripping jean’s hips it’s starting to hurt him.  with uneven, chewed nails eren drags his fingers down jean’s chest, eliciting a violent, startled groan.  ‘happy?’ eren asks.

he doesn’t wait for a response before he yanks jean’s pants open, pulling his dick out without a hint of kindness, squeezing the shaft tight in the ring of his thumb and pointer finger, running over the head with a harsh thumb, nail digging into the slit --

‘christ, eren!’  jean bats his hand away with a firmness that surprises eren.  it takes him a moment to register the little crescents forming in the meat of eren’s shoulders where jean’s fingernails dig into his skin.  ‘are you okay?’

‘yeah,’ eren says, plaintively.

jean frowns.  ‘you know, this may be shocking to you, but i kind of prefer you when you’re okay.’

eren breathes in.  his lungs expand farther than he expects, and he remembers once again that he has boobs, this time around.  ‘i’m okay,’ he says, and makes another grab for jean’s dick.

‘no,’ jean says, pushing eren away.  ‘not okay.’

‘i’m _fine_ \-- ‘

‘eren, you just jammed your fingernail into my fucking _urethra_ , okay, it hurt, can you please just tell me what’s wrong before you break my fucking dick?’

eren clenches his teeth.  ‘i -- am -- fine.’

jean sits all the way up, shoving eren off of him, tucking his dick back in his underwear.  damn.  ‘no, you’re  _clearly_ not -- ‘

‘whatever,’ eren says, standing up, grabbing his shirt, his sweater, shoving the long roll of bandages in his pocket.  he flings the door open, shucking his shirt on as jean rises from the bed himself.

‘eren, wait -- ‘

the tag tickles the bottom of his chin. he put his fucking shirt on backwards.  eren slams the door behind him, tugs the sweater on over his head, thundering down the hall --

‘eren, seriously, hang on a fucking second -- ‘  the bedroom door opens again with a little click.

‘go away, jean!’ eren shouts over his shoulder as he tramples through the living room, tugging his sweater down into the proper place, something stinging bitter and tight in his throat his shoulders clenching up until they’re near his ears.

‘shut up, eren!’

jean practically tackles him in the doorway, physically pulling eren back into the living room, shoving him onto the couch with a force eren isn’t quite as resistant to as he should be.

and with a gentleness, jean begins:  ‘eren, what the -- ‘ but before he can even finish the sentence eren has popped right back up, metal clips dangling outside his pockets like some kind of fucking keychain, up in jean’s personal space.

‘would you shut the fuck up and let me the fuck through -- ‘  there are tears pricking at his eyes, _fuck_ fuck fuck --

jean’s eyes turn all soft and concerned, his hands brushing eren’s shoulders with a tender caring that makes eren want to vomit all over him, asking, ‘eren, what’s the -- ?’

eren socks him in the gut.

the _ooph_ jean makes as the wind is knocked out of him is the most satisfying noise eren’s heard all night.

jean kicks him in the shin and eren nearly collapses to the floor.  he retaliates by grabbing jean’s shoulder and slams him into the coffee table with a resounding _snap_ ,  but then eren is being tackled to the ground, his shoes scraping across jean’s legs for some hint of purchase, of pain, but jean grips him tight around the shoulders over the arms and eren realizes with a jolt that this is a _hug_ \--

eren turns his face into the curve of jean’s neck and bites down, tears leaking from his eyes.

‘it’s okay,’ jean says.  ‘it’s _okay_.’

the emphasis makes eren feel like a child -- or maybe that’s the crying, or the way his eyes clench shut and he can’t seem to open them.  he whispers, ‘ _fuck you_ ,’ to jean in the meanest way he can manage.

‘actually, you kind of missed out on that part.’

eren groans and more tears leak out of his eyes and there’s no way jean _doesn't_  know by now, fuck --

jean releases an arm to gently stroke eren’s hair, up and down and up and down as he has eren bodily pressed to the floor.

eren pauses, working past the knot in his throat to get out with appropriate denigration, ‘can you _not?'_

a cough.  ‘yeah, that’s -- ‘ jean pushes himself off eren, crushing him a little harder to the carpet in the process.  ‘that’s weird.’

‘you think?’ eren mumbles.  his eyes are still puffed red and he feels like his cheeks must be the size of tomatoes but as he pushes himself up onto his hands in order to lean against the foot of the couch, everything falls back into place.

jean immediately skitters out of the room, overcome with what is no doubt a hefty level of embarrassment.  eren can’t say he isn’t empathizing.

‘um, do you want -- ‘ out from the kitchen, awkwardly far away.  ‘some soup, or something -- ‘

‘i’m _fine_.’  the words make eren briefly contemplate getting up and leaving, walking back out into the wind and rain.  jean wouldn’t stop him, now that he’s calmed down.  now that he’s got his nails away from jean’s dick.

eren buries his chin in the collar of his sweater.  that had been kind of a shit thing to do.

‘look, eren, it’s not.  it’s really _not_ a big thing,’ jean’s voice approaches from the kitchen, still sounding tense and self-conscious.  ‘i mean, i’m born as a girl like half the fucking time, it’s not really -- ‘

‘i’m not a girl.’

‘well, yeah, _obviously_ , but -- ‘

‘you don’t get it.’  eren says it with more of a sigh than any anger.  

jean stands over him, arms crossed indignantly.  ‘look, i get it just _fine_ \-- ‘

‘you don’t.’  the bandage still dangles out of his pocket.  eren toys with it in his fingers.  ‘when you’re born a girl you’re a fucking girl but i’m -- not.’

jean blinks.  ‘yeah, i get that.’

the elastic around his finger, choking off blood flow.  ‘just shut up and let me suck your dick already.’

jean bristles.  ‘ _you_ were the one who -- ‘

‘you were the one who stopped me,’ eren counters.

‘you were _hurting_ me!‘

‘wimp.’

jean huffs angrily, crossing his arms.  the little notch between his eyebrows reemerges.  ‘what the fuck ever.’  he steps away, like he’s making to leave eren alone in the middle of the living room floor.

another little jolt of panic, cold and nauseating.  ‘what the fuck am i even supposed to say?’ eren starts.  the curve of jean’s back stiffens to an uncomfortable line, his ears turning red.  ‘that my own body makes me want to claw my fucking eyes out?  that i seriously considered killing myself just to get out of fucking puberty?   _what?'_   his voice rises in his throat as yet another set of tears well up along his bottom lashes.  he slams his palm to his forehead, once again becoming acquainted with the feeling of wanting to crawl inside himself and leak out into nonexistence.  ‘what the fuck do you want me to say, jean?!’

turning back to him with a nervous press to his lips, jean shrugs.

‘then just -- ‘ eren stands up, swiping a rough hand over his eyes, ‘ -- let me get on with it -- ‘ he grips jean by the collar of his shirt, pulling it tight around the back of his neck, ‘and let’s fuck.’

eren smashes their mouths together for the third time that night.  his lips are starting to go numb, lividly red and puffy.  he barely feels it when jean’s teeth split his bottom lip.

jean, hands at eren’s shoulders, pushes him away, _yet a-fucking-gain_.  eren fists jean’s shirt, still hanging open, in his hands, wrenching him forward with a snarl on the back of his tongue --

‘eren -- eren that is _not_ attractive!’

he pushes jean into the wall with a thud that reverberates through the air in jean’s lungs.  jean is bigger than him this time, but skinny and flabby and not that hard to push around.  not that resistant to being pushed around.  ‘are we going to fuck or what?’  there are nails digging into the meat of his palms, through the fabric of jean’s shirt.  his own.

‘i mean -- yeah, but -- ‘

‘okay.’  eren’s aware he’s cutting jean off, some important protest dying on his lips as eren pulls him backwards to the bedroom, the second time they’ve been this way in the last ten minutes.  he peels off the remaining arms of jean’s shirt, unbuckles his jeans, yanks them to the ground.  standing in the middle of jean’s bedroom.

‘eren,’ jean says, a hand in eren’s hair as he fusses with jean’s laces.

‘shut up, jean.’  he breathes in through his teeth.  ‘don’t need to talk to fuck -- ‘

‘why do you want this so bad?’

eren pauses where he is, his fingers hooked in the elastic of jean’s underwear.  it dawns on eren that he has absolutely no idea why he wants this.  he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care, so he says nothing.  ‘i’m going to suck you off now.’

eren yanks jean’s underwear down.  his face goes all red and blotchy, his chest erupting into a pink flush under the scraggly dusting of dark hair on his chest.  that’s not how it had been before.  the blotchiness or the hair.

‘eren -- ‘ jean says with some kind of urgency, but it’s not a protest, eren does not allow it to be a protest, licks up the shaft of jean’s dick, not fully hard but certainly getting there.

‘eren -- ‘  and it’s still with an urgency but not the same kind as before, more needy, more like a request or a plea.  the vein under his thumb swells thick enough that eren can trace it with the pad of his thumb, he bobs his head down, running the tip of his tongue over that same vein, lower lip tucked over his bottom teeth.  it’s almost automatic at this point, something he’s done so many times it’s practically muscle memory.  jean’s fingers pull tight around the roots of his hair, dig into his scalp.  eren can feel the neatly-manicured edges.  there’s the overpowering smell of sweat and the choked-off noise that tumbles off jean’s tongue when the head of his dick pushes against the back of eren’s throat --

‘fuck!’ jean swears, fingers knotting in eren’s fringe, his hips twitching and a long, low sound scraping past jean’s teeth biting his own lip as he comes and eren reevaluates because that is the most satisfying nose jean’s made all night.

the springs of the bed creak as jean’s knees finally seem to give out and he collapses back against the mattress.  ‘i’m a horrible person,’ he says.

eren shrugs.  he doesn’t really know what jean’s referring to.  ‘sometimes.’

jean leans all the way back, arms under his neck.  only his legs and quickly-softening dick hang off the edge of the bed.  he makes a pained, nasal noise.  his underwear is still tangled up in his ankles along with single sock on his right foot.

eren doesn’t know why, exactly, but he breathes out a sigh of relief.  ‘it’s whatever.’

jean’s head pops up, crooking his neck at an awkward angle to get a look at eren, still loitering by jean’s knees.  he sighs.  ‘want me to eat you out, or something?’

eren wrinkles his nose.  his gut curdles uncomfortably.  ‘not really.’

jean sighs.  again.  ‘are you alright?’

‘i’m _fine_ ,’ eren snaps.

‘don’t sound fine,’ jean mumbles, sitting up.  but he doesn’t bother eren, just bends over and yanks his underwear back up his thighs.

jean stands, stepping over the mess of clothes and shoes, past eren and to the doorway.  ‘you hungry?’

eren pauses, blinks.  ‘yeah.’

jean nods.  ‘okay then.’  he opens the door.  ‘come on, i’ll feed you.’

eren pushes himself to his knees.  ‘alright.’

.

‘you really shouldn’t use those bandages, though.’  jean grumbles this around a mouthful of cereal, grainy bits sailing over his bowl and into the sink.

eren glares.  ‘it’s fine, jean.’

jean rolls his eyes.  aggressively.  it’s weird.  ‘you know you have bruises, right?’

over his own spoonful of sugar-heavy cereal, eren mumbles, ‘yeah.’  he doesn’t think he could not notice, with the way it’s hard to breathe in, the discoloration, the tender spots under his arms.  

‘what the hell, eren!’  his spoon clatters into the ceramic bowl.  ‘you’re gonna fucking -- _damage_ yourself.’

‘does it really matter?’

a long moment of complete, utter silence.  jean stares at him, one side of his mouth pulled down into an ugly expression.  'what the fuck happened to eren fucking jaeger -- ' a scoff ‘ -- because in no universe would he ever -- ‘

eren rolls his eyes.  ‘just did.’  he's already heard the exact same sentiment before, cliche phrasing and all.  eren can kind of appreciate the thought, but --

‘of course it matters, eren.’

the words are straightforward and uncomfortably earnest.  jean rests his elbows on the counter.  pitying -- that’s the word, pitying.  eren slouches.

‘we’re finally safe and -- _f_ _ree_.’  the spoon clinks against the ceramic bowl as jean nudges it with his arm.  ‘it’s never mattered so fucking much.’  jean is disbelieving and mildly accusatory, as if eren using ace bandages to press his boobs to his chest is some fucking affront on jean’s moral outlook.

eren narrows his eyes and stares flatly at jean.  ‘nothing about this actually matters, dumbass, if i die -- what?  i come back again?  not really a huge deal.’  eren swallows.  ‘we just come back again.  and again.  and again.’

jean’s mouth shuts with a click of his teeth.

eren adds on, gazing into the brown flecks floating in his milk.  ‘there’s not anything, really.’

‘of course it fucking -- ‘ jean sputters, little microbes of spittle flying into eren’s face, ‘ -- you’ve got a chance to be fucking _happy_ , eren!’

‘i was happy before!’ eren shouts, looking up at jean like a reflex, clenching his teeth together, his nails digging into his palms.

jean’s jaw drops, his eyebrows furrowing into an angry, accusatory line.  ‘ _dude_.’

eren makes a dispassionate noise.

‘you weren’t fucking _happy_.  you were miserable.’  a pause.  eren stares at the counter so he won’t have to see the vulnerable look in jean’s eyes.  ‘we were all miserable.’

eren swallows.  he shrugs.

‘you have the dreams.’  it’s not a question.  the craggy line of jean’s adam’s apple shifts as he swallows.  ‘we were not -- happy.’

‘mikasa was there.’

jean slams a fist into the counter.  ‘fuck mikasa, you’ve got your own -- ‘  his cheeks puff out like balloons as he cuts himself off mid sentence.  ‘what the fuck ever, i’m going -- i’m going to bed.’  he drops his half-empty bowl into the sink, the clatter grating on eren’s nerves and the milk splashing up into his face.

you don’t get to lecture me a leave, asshole!  the words float on eren’s tongue for as long as it takes jean to storm out of his line of sight.  he’s halfway down the hall before he tosses back, all bitter and biting, ‘sleep on the couch if you want!’ and slams the bedroom door behind him.

eren bites his lip and stares down into his cereal.  why hadn’t he said that?  normally he would have said that.

the door creaks open again.  ‘and keep those fucking bandages off your goddamn chest!’ jean says, and slams it closed before eren can get even a word in edgewise.

.

eren does not spend the night on jean’s couch.  instead he stands resolute in jean’s kitchen, glaring at the dirty dishes loitering in the sink and over the counter.  he blows out a slow breath of air, his arms tucked tight around his chest -- they’re supposed to be crossed, he remembers, rather belatedly.

outside, the wind howls, the branches of trees banging and scraping at the windows.  the rain hasn’t let up a bit in the last few hours.  over to his right there’s a set of glass sliding doors sheltered by the patio beyond them, an uncomfortable-looking slab of concrete.  he briefly contemplates what would happen if he went out to sit on it and simply didn’t come back inside.  the spray of the rain and the rush of the wind.  it would be nice, eren thinks.  cold.  he thinks he could probably do it.

saliva collects in his mouth.  he should be angry.  eren can’t remember the last time he was able to think so clearly and the realization comes to him like a slap in the face.  he should be angry at jean, but all he feels is the empty numbness of the storm, all he can think of is the dead slap of water on his skin.  he should be angry at jean.

eren glances back down at the dishes in the sink, and starts to wash.

the sound of the rain outside is drowned out by the rushing water.  he scrubs.  there’s something therapeutic about it that he can’t quite place, something mindless about the water sliding over his hands, the rhythmic motion of scrubbing.  he remembers cleaning the halls and the bathrooms, windows of the castle the survey corps had used as their base, in the beginning.  that had been during his first few days there; eren remembers the absolute puzzlement he had experienced upon seeing levi with his cleaning gear, the weird handkerchiefs he wore over his mouth and forehead.  it had ruptured eren’s whole view of the guy at the time, the man who beat him to within an inch of his life to save him, severe and menacing and about ten different kinds of attractive.

eren pauses.  in retrospect, the whole thing had been pretty cute, actually.  the -- outfit, not the obsessive aversion to germs.  that had always puzzled eren almost as much as the apron.

but maybe he’ll figure it out at some point.  levi had always been anal about cleaning -- of all kinds, the rumors had used to say.  but what the captain got up to in his spare time was none of eren’s business, disrespectful for him to be curious, even if he did occasionally lean in a little closer, tilt his head a little more, linger a little longer just to hear what his comrades had to say about the captain’s escapades when they thought no one was listening….

eren jerks, a fork clattering around somewhere in the soapy water.  he shoots the window a guilty look.

he doesn’t hear it when the door creaks open, but it must because in a moment jean is staring at him over the counter, a disbelieving expression carved into the tilt of his lips.  ‘are you doing my fucking dishes?’

eren looks up at him with wide eyes.  he’s perfectly aware that he can see jean, that he’s standing right there but on another level he can’t seem to convince himself that jean is actually there, that anything is actually there.  ‘yeah.’

‘ _why?’_

eren shrugs.  ‘i’m not angry.’

silence hangs for a long, long moment, eren continuing to scrub, before he realizes that the reason jean hasn’t responded is that the last thing eren said had made no fucking sense.

‘i mean -- i can’t even fucking think clearly like -- ever, but i know what i -- i should be mad, but i’m not, and i don’t know why!’  eren shoves a plastic spatula into the hot water.  it tingles over his hand.

‘you seem pretty mad to me.’

jean still hasn’t put on a shirt.  he’s not especially fit this time around, his undercut missing.  his cheekbones are softer than they used to be, his jaw more defined.  eren could probably fuck him again.

‘i’m not,’ eren says.

jean rolls his eyes.  ‘whatever.’  he hesitates for a second, glancing awkwardly off to the side before he comes around the corner to stand beside eren, watching him scrub at a spatula.

‘you don’t need to help, i’m almost done.’

jean grunts, crossing his arms.  he had always done that exact same thing, before.  total shit when he didn’t know what to do.  eren smiles a bit to himself, and the offer comes rolling off his tongue like a reflex, ‘i’ll suck your dick again afterwards.’

jean stiffens.   _‘fuck,_ eren.’  it’s not the kind of _fuck_ eren wants, decidedly exasperated and maybe pitying.  disbelieving.  eren’s face burns.  ‘would you just -- ‘ a hand, heavy on his shoulder.  ‘the fuck is wrong with you?’

eren pulls the stopper out of the drain.  jean has his hands over his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.  eren can just barely make out the last few syllables of a mumbled, ‘terrible person.’  he’s not entirely sure who jean is talking about, but before he can really ponder it, jean is steering him over to the couch, jaw clenched so tight eren can see the muscles twitch under his skin.  ‘go to sleep,’ he says, and then lower, ‘i can’t deal with this.’

‘fuck you,’ eren mumbles without a hint of bite.

jean sighs.  ‘go to bed, eren.’

he does.

.

the stench is what wakes him up.  his first breath of air reeks of rotten flesh, the putrid smell of death.  there is nothing to be done.  bodies float in the pool of blood, caught in a gentle drift, a dead-eyed face staring up at him, deep red lapping at the cheeks, spilling over into the open mouth, his pants soaked warm and wet clinging to his skin his lungs screeching for a breath of air muscles convulsing beneath his feet and every illusion of gallantry, grandeur is wiped away like a coating of stale dust, lacquer, rust, and all he’s left with is the screaming, the blood, the hot press of muscle and his mother --

.

his eyes flutter open sometime in the early morning, the television grumbling at a low volume.  he mumbles, turning over, burying his face in the uncomfortable tilt of the crease of the couch.

‘hey, you up?’

eren breathes in, his lungs expanding with a mild burn.  ‘yeah,’ he says.  the light that filters in from the sliding doors is gray, muted by a dreary cloud cover, but it still hurts eren’s eyes.

‘go back to sleep if you’re tired.’

eren grunts as he sits up, glaring at the bright little screen twinkling across the room, the time display sitting above it.  five in the morning.  ‘i’m already awake.’  he glances over at jean, lounging in the armchair on the other side of the room.  he leans back, legs sprawled open in an uncaring fashion, wearing a pair of battered plaid pajama pants.  eren slept in his jeans.

‘dreams?’

eren blinks.  ‘yeah.’  the memories are already rolling out of his brain, swallowed up by the greyish fog that shrouds his mind.  eren lets them go with a tired sigh.

the tv blares quietly.  jean doesn’t say anything.  under some layer of haze eren can hear the indistinguishable murmuring of a morning talk show.  he leans his head back and stares at the ceiling.

.

jean smokes out on the patio.  eren doesn’t see it for a while after he meets jean, early in the morning.  the cool dawn air pinches his cheeks an uncomfortable-looking pink color as he pulls one cigarette out of the carton, and then another, and then another.  eren watches the smoke puff up, pool under the slab of concrete that forms the patio of the apartment above jean’s, eyes the curl of his fingers as he snuffs the glowing butts in the ashtray perched precariously on the ledge.

eren leans in the mouth of the hallway, thoughts doughing up in his head:  he should be angry.  he should be storming out there, yelling about hippocracies, about ‘take care of yourself, eren’, about the slow decay of his lungs.  he should be pissed off.

breath propels itself from eren’s lungs like the smoke jean sighs out past his lips.  he should be angry.  

eren supposes he’s waiting for the day he can manage that.

.

a documentary on daytime television:  supernovas.  every element in the universe, computer simulations, cloudy conflagrations all flash before his eyes in a spectrum of colors he doubts he’s ever seen in nature.  tells him his body used to be stardust, his bones his skin his brain all the product of apocalyptic events too vast for his mind to comprehend.  every body of his was just some random combination of molecules, particles spit out by a dying star billions upon billions of years ago.  arbitrary, accidental, transcendental.  temporary.

eren stares at his hands.  it shouldn’t mean anything.

because in the great scheme of things, his brain is made entirely of stardust -- _cosmic_ \-- more vastly significant than eren will ever be able to comprehend.  he’s all minerals, chemicals, calcium and carbon, the raw stuff of the universe.  you wouldn’t exist otherwise.

and yet here he is:  bodies that don’t fit, memories lingering in his mind like ghosts, translucent wisps that awaken as menacing specters in the cover of night.

the credits roll.

what is he?

.

‘what did you do today?’

eren glances up at jean.  ‘my bones are made of supernova dust.’

jean pauses, his hand on the door of the fridge.  ‘you need to get a fuckin’ job.’

eren grunts an affirmative.

.

eren gets a job at the convenience store around the corner.  it’s nice, kind of upscale.  it overlooks the same park eren can see from off the balcony.  there’s a pond, with cattails swaying in the wind and nice middle-class families rolling out brightly-colored towels to enjoy the view.  he tells his boss his legal name is maxine, but his middle name is eren, and he'd like to be called that.  she smiles at him and scribbles on the whiteboard, 'erin.'  
  
eren doesn't bother to correct her, just silently stews every time he gets told that he should grow out his hair (it's so pretty) or that he should be more careful (danger lurks right around the corner, even in nice parts of town), do you want to go shopping with us?

‘if you have such a problem with it, just tell them,’ jean says.  his toothbrush dangles endearingly out of his mouth.

eren grunts noncommittally.  jean rolls his eyes.

eren sits on his ass for a long second, thinking, before jean comes over and slaps him in the back of the head.

‘you can’t expect anyone to do anything for you if you don’t talk to them, dumbass,’ jean says.  he hasn’t taken his toothbrush out of his mouth.  eren’s pretty sure he has toothpaste in his hair.

he doesn’t respond.  just clutches the back of his head and glares.

.

sometimes, on indolent sunday mornings when eren doesn’t have to be into work until one (or is it noon?), he lays in jean’s bed and watches the blurry little forms of people hike up the long winding paths or the vendors set up tents the same manilla as their standard issue jackets had been.  he watches the ducks.  he can’t remember seeing ducks before, but he must have, because he knows what they sound like.

eren wonders where they sleep, also, because he never sees them at night.  not even when he and jean toss rocks out over the surface of the pond, watching them skip over the water (one, two, three, four -- ha!  better luck next time, jaeger!) before finally letting them slip beneath the surface.

one time jean crosses his legs, resting his elbows against his knees, and explains.  ‘it has to do with the surface tension, or something,’ he says.  ‘same reason why jumping into water from really high feels like you’re hitting concrete.  apparently it can kill you.’

eren hums.  he’s not really listening.  jean had explained to him once what makes a rock good for skipping:  smooth and flat, curved edges, when you can grip it between your thumb and forefinger and it sits just right.  some are better than others, each skipped once and then lost beneath the wake, drifting down to the murky bottom while jean mumbles about hydrogen and pushes his glasses up on his nose; eren could never find it or distinguish it again if he put forth the effort to dive beneath the surface and scrape the bottom with the clammy palms of his hands.

eren’s skin starts to crawl, blisteringly hot.  it’s lost forever, he can never go back, he wants to dive beneath the waves and take it back, take it back.

jean is saying something about surface tension when eren rolls over the dew-wet grass in the yellow-orange light of the streetlamp and presses his lips to jean’s.  the moon is barely a sliver, barely any light, but eren doesn’t need it to feel jean’s arm around his waist, pulling him closer.  eren throws his arms around jean’s shoulders, his knee over jean’s hip.  he claws at the plane of jean’s back, drags his teeth over jean’s bottom lip and his mind floods with memories of a boy with an undercut who wanted nothing more than to escape the terror and the gnawing hunger and the constant waking sense of danger, when eren was so involved he didn’t even feel it.

like a brick to the head, it hits eren:  when jean had long hair and green eyes and the ground had hummed with a mechanical rumble, red hair and laughter and slow emaciation, thin cheeks and worry lines and breasts that fit perfectly in eren’s palm.  when it had been ‘she’ and not ‘he’ and all of them had been slowly starving.  he remembers.  

eren feels jean’s shoulders, wide and angled underneath his hands, jean’s palms all broad on his hips and remembers the way jean had stumbled into the main room that morning, pulled the band of his underwear back into place, and yawned.  he doesn’t have an undercut or fear etched into the lines of his face.  his body is shaped all differently, he cares too much about politics, he plays guitar and the piano, and it’s all wrong but he finally found a world where he could get what he wanted, where he doesn’t have to be brave, where the good life is an apartment and cigarettes and soft sheets and -- apparently -- eren.

it’s been months.

it takes eren a long moment to realize that jean is saying his name loudly, pressing against the sides of his stomach with a grip much more gentle than eren knows he’s capable of.  eren remembers he had always criticized until the point where someone cried, always pushed too softly, eren remembers how long it took him to figure out that the veins of jean’s cowardice were dug as deep as his actual ones.  he sinks his teeth into jean’s jugular.

‘ow!  jaeger, what the fuck?!’

he pushes harder, then, and eren shoves his hands up the fabric of jean’s shirt.  he kept eren around.  jean kept him.

‘eren!’

his breath is quick and hot in eren’s ear.

‘you shouldn’t be doing this.’

eren moves, knots his fingers in jean’s hair.  he forgets for a second that it used to be an undercut.

‘you can’t just -- drown your -- whatever.  you can’t just try to have sex with me to make yourself feel better.’

the words sink below his skin and into the cells of his muscle and blood and bones.  he blinks.  ‘i’m not.’

the cool night air chills him, pricks his skin into goosebumps.

‘yes you _are_.’

eren leans in and smashes his lips against jean’s so hard it’s painful.  their noses bump and their teeth clack and the skin of jean’s lip breaks.  blood tastes dull and metallic, like he had shoved a coin with erwin’s stupid face on it into his mouth.

‘jaeger, what the fuck!?’  jean pushes him away as hard as he probably can this time, and eren tumbles off of his lap and into the wet grass.  one of the motion-activated lamps flicks on, bathing the two of them in muggy yellow light.  mosquitos buzz around jean’s head, thrown into relief.  eren watches silently as jean pants, blood bubbling up from his lip.  his eyes are bright blue, and his hair is too dark and his jaw is too round and he always smells like his laundry detergent instead of blood and sweat and mud or standard-issue military soap.  eren might be able to learn to like it.

"i want you," eren says.  his palms are jammed into the earth, wet like mud.  he’s pretty sure his ass is soaked.  "i mean, not you -- i want -- "  eren pauses, his mouth going dry.

jean, his arms crossed, asks, "what?"

after a pause, eren says, "i don’t know what the call you here."

judgingly, jean stares at him.  "it’s francis," he says.  "and you’re a fucking embarrassment."

"ew," eren says, wrinkling his nose.  "i don’t wanna fuck francis."  jean sighs.  eren crawls back over to him, wrapping his arms -- too slender, fat in all the wrong places -- around jean’s neck.  eren kisses him.  "but you know what i mean."

jean hums, much too disbelieving for eren to think he’s got his point across.

"i wanna fuck you, you wanna fuck me.  what’s the problem?"

jean leans back, away from eren.  "you’re emotionally damaged," he says.  "and your ass is wet."

"i’m fine."

“you’re trying to fuck me in a public park.”

eren glances up and around.  the light flicks off.  “oh,” eren says.

jean sighs, nudging at his shoulders.  eren slides goff of him, sinking into the dirt and the grass as jean stands up.  he holds a hand out to eren.  ‘come on, eren.  let’s go home.’

he’s not mad.  seems more disappointed than anything else.  eren doesn’t get it.

what he also doesn’t get:  when he takes jean’s hand, stands up to follow jean back to his apartment, the park lights refuse to flick back on.

.

metal clanks loudly against metal as jean throws a fork haphazardly into the sink.  ‘you can’t just -- eren, you can’t just _not_ tell your coworkers about it and come home and whine to me!’

eren kicks his sneakers up on the coffee table.  he says nothing.  this time around, jean’s voice goes all high and squeaky when he gets mad, and it rubs eren the wrong way.

more clanking.  eren slowly parts his lips.  ‘what do i do if they say no?’

jean slams his palms down on the counter.  ‘then you quit!’  footfalls on the kitchen linoleum and then the counter.  ‘no,’ he says, rounding on the couch until he’s looming over eren’s slouching body.  ‘if they don’t fucking respect you, you go back and you raise hell until they fucking _fire you,_ and then you get your fucking severance package!’

eren blinks.  ‘i don’t...’ he pauses.  ‘i don’t think gas stations give severance packages.’  jean crosses his arms.  ‘and i don’t think that, even if they did, i would get one after fucking with them that hardcore.’

jean huffs, rolls his eyes.  ‘the principle still stands.’

.

eren rolls off jean’s couch in the middle of the night to go pee.  the walls are so thin he can hear jean snoring from the other room -- eren wonders where he picked that habit up, because he probably would’ve had his throat slit for it back in training camp by a bunch of angry, exhausted twelve-year-olds.

the night has a way about it.  all sleepy and tired and quiet, makes you feel like the whole world has stopped for a while, wraps eren up and lulls him into a sense of security, a still kind of safety.  the carpet crawls under his toes.  eren had used to sneak around at night, before, padding out of the barracks under the aegis of the frigid air and the soft light of the moon.  back then he’d slipped his shoes on just outside the door, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

he doesn’t need shoes to go the bathroom.  he’s not going to meet jean in a storage shed.  he’s not going to meet jean at all.  he’s going to pee.

the light flicks on with a satisfying little click.

back on the ship -- eren doesn’t remember it so clearly, but he’s pretty sure the second time he met jean it was on a ship -- there hadn’t been any mirrors.  after so long they all get around to breaking, apparently.  he hadn’t spent a lot of time looking at himself.

now, he does.

sometimes eren can forget.  but he flips the light on in that bathroom and the only thing that he can think about is the soft line of his jaw and the full curve of his lips, slender neck and high cheekbones and the curve of his breasts under his shirt.  

there’s a reusable bandage strewn haphazard on the counter.  eren very seriously considers wrapping it back around his chest for the night, pressing his boobs back into his chest, like he can suck them back up into his body through sheer force of will.  he grabs it, stretching the fabric in his hands.  jean would probably yell at him if he slept in the thing.

all at once eren throws the bandage towards the far edge of the room, at the shower.  it makes an unsatisfying clinking noise against the ceramic.

eren wants to scream.

he does.

it takes eren about as long as it takes jean to appear in the doorway, breath heavy with panic.

screaming had been a horrible idea.

‘what’s happening?!’

from the floor -- eren doesn’t know when he had fallen on his knees, but he’s there --  he stares up at jean with shame and guilt broiling low in his gut.  ‘um,’ he says.  jean is scared.  jean is terrified.  ‘i’m fine.’

‘what, why...’

his eyes are so wide eren can see the full circle of his pupils.  he stumbles a step or two into the bathroom and falls hard on his knees.  eren figures it out a second before jean says it, with jean gripping his shoulders so tight he’ll probably leave bruises, a couple hysterical laughs tumbling out of his mouth.  ‘for a second i thought -- ‘ another laugh.  ‘i thought that -- ‘

‘titans,’ eren says.  his voice rings high and feminine in the room.

jean doesn’t respond.  his grip tightens.  after a second, he laughs forcibly all stressed and breathy.  ‘why did you scream?’

eren opens his mouth.  he closes it again.  he can’t believe he did that.

‘what?’

‘i -- i just.’  eren’s mouth opens, but no words come out.  ‘it’s fine.’  he swallows.  ‘i’m fine.’

jean’s eyebrows wrinkle together.  ‘eren -- ‘

eren shoves at his chest, sending jean back a couple of inches.  at the very least, eren dislodges his grip.  ‘i’m fine, get out.’

‘eren, you just _screamed_ at two in the fucking -- ‘

‘i said i’m _fine!”_

jean falls silent, his lips forming a thin, hard line.  eren’s almost jealous.  ‘i think about it sometimes too, you know.’

from down below, someone shoves the end of a broom into their own ceiling, making the floor directly beneath the two of them shudder.  in response, jean punches the floor right back.  'shut up!'  angry grumbling rises up from below, followed by heavy footsteps and more knocking at the ceiling.  eren stares down at the linoleum.  jean seems to ignore it, muttering something to himself that sounds a lot like, ‘asshole,’ before placing a hand on eren’s thigh.  ‘are you okay?’

bile spikes up hot and acidic in his throat.  the answer reverberates through the empty chasms of his mind:   _no_.  but jean has no idea what’s even going on, jean doesn’t get that eren wants to crawl straight out of his own skin, jean doesn’t get that the dreams had stopped actually disturbing him lifetimes ago.

‘eren?’  hands on his shoulders, jean shakes him.  ‘earth to eren?’  jean doesn’t have any fucking clue; eren remembers when the two of them had been floating aimlessly through nothing and he had just kept his hair long and gotten his skirts adjusted had just been _okay_ with ‘she’ and ‘her’.  ‘you okay?’

jean wouldn’t have even asked before.  he would have been too afraid of what to do with the answer.

‘it’s not the titans,’ eren says.  he tries not to sound bitter.  ‘i’m fine.’

jean opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but eren stands up before he can get even a word in edgewise.  ‘i’m fine.’

jean stands up right after eren, towering a good five inches over him.  he had been a girl and just let it happen.  ‘eren -- ‘

‘i have to pee, get out.’

a sigh.  ‘dude, come on, just fucking tell me -- ‘

‘get out!’  eren shoves at his chest and feels his head drop into his gut when jean barely even budges.  he swallows, trying to recover himself.  ‘unless you want me to pee on you.’

jean doesn’t laugh.  eren doesn’t even try.

‘there’s nothing you can do about it.  go to bed.’

eren watches as jean’s chest heaves up and down, his arms crossed.  he looks offended, but it’s a fact that only occurs to eren after a few long seconds.  it doesn’t take much longer for him to decide that he doesn’t even care.  

he watches as jean stands in the doorway, looking eren up and down somberly.  eren shifts on his feet, feeling every part of his body that feels _wrong_ start to buzz and tingle and itch.  he feels nauseous.

and then jean opens his fucking mouth and asks with the most condescension eren’s heard in this lifetime, ‘are you sure you -- ?’

eren shoves him, putting all of his -- admittedly meager -- weight into it, his shoulder colliding with jean’s ribcage.  he stumbles back into the hallway, lips parted in some kind of shock and eyebrows furrowed in anger.  ‘jaeger, what the _fuck?!’_  he throws his hands up above his head.  ‘i’m just trying to help you, you noncommunicative -- ‘

‘i hate my body, you can’t do anything about it, i don’t need your fucking sympathy!’ eren snaps.  ‘go to sleep.’

‘how does your -- ‘

eren slams the door shut before jean can say another word.

silence.  the ringing in eren’s ears fades until it’s so quiet that eren can focus on how hard his heart is beating in his chest, little thready thunder.  just outside the door, he can hear jean breathing, loud and heavy and obnoxious and why won’t he go _away?_

‘fuck off,’ eren says through the door.  unwittingly, he loses his balance and falls forward and inch or two so his forehead is resting against the cheap wood.  ‘unless you wanna hear me pee,’ he tacks on, much too late for it to be funny.  ‘that’s a weird thing to be into, kirstein.’

jean sighs.  ‘whatever, jaeger.’

the carpet crinkles under jean’s feet as he walks away, followed by the clicking of his bedroom door shutting closed.

eren sniffs.  a couple drops of water drip from his chin to the pale linoleum floor.

he wonders how long he had been crying for.

.

on bright days, on days where the sun only occasionally goes overcast with puffy little white clouds and children with single parents go outside to shriek and laugh, jean goes out for walks around the greenbelt across the street.  usually he asks eren if he wants to go with him.

that morning, he doesn’t.  jean tosses his empty bowl into the sink with an aloofness not characteristic of him, looks eren right in the eye, and stampedes out the door.  eren thinks he might be supposed to take it as an insult, but he’s not honestly sure.

eren doesn’t.  he slouches down on the couch and flips the tv on with the remote.  shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth in a way that is definitely not angry.  when he bites down, he forgets to take the spoon out of his mouth.

what was jean’s problem, anyway?  it’s not like eren owes him anything.  he pays rent.  sometimes.

eren frowns down at his cereal, then out the window.  it’s a clear day, weekend.  he has work in a hour.

he could probably just leave.

the thought swoops in from nowhere.  eren doesn’t even feel it.  he feels like he should feel something.

instead he rests his head in his hand and stares out the window.  the sky is blue, and the clouds are cute and puffy.  off in the corner, the polished surface of jean’s guitar reflects the sunlight into a little rainbow on the opposing wall.  the kitchen table is covered in newspapers from the last three months and at least five different books pressed open-faced into the table.  

eren sighs.  he drinks the rest of the milk -- chunks of cereal mush, ew -- places the bowl in the sink, and heads out to work.

.

oh, go ahead and ask erin, she’s over at the register.

eren twirls his pen around the rim of the mug sitting at the corner of the counter.  he zips his jacket up the last little bit, until the collar is pressing into the hollow of his throat.  no one comes.

he hasn’t slept with jean yet.  not really.

the day drags on. eren rings up purchases.  water, jerky, ice cream, condoms.  sometimes he puts things in a bag.

eren’s not sure he wants to, anymore.  which is a weird, kind of unsettling experience.  he can’t actually remember the last time he -- stopped wanting to fuck someone.  especially jean.  the guy was obnoxious, and cowardly, and stuck his nose in eren’s business, but he was hot.  is hot.

maybe eren does wanna sleep with him.  he doesn’t know.

what did he even like about jean, anyway?  it couldn’t possibly be the obnoxiousness, or the fact that he has no backbone to speak of.  and it definitely can’t be the sticking his nose into eren’s business.  

he allocates his gaze to the counter, plated with a thick sheet of plastic.  underneath is a worn-looking add for candy and a black stone slab.  ‘no backbone to speak of’ might be a bit untrue.  jean can get his shit together when he needs to.  doesn’t let people walk all over him.  probably led an army or something?  eren’s not entirely sure.

eren taps his fingers against the counter.  there’s probably something he could be doing, but he has no idea what.  slow day.  

this time around, jean goes on walks and eats cereal and plays the guitar.  when he’s mad, he gets a deep little notch in between his eyebrows, and sometimes in a fit of passive-aggression he shoves the TV remote in weird places like under his little mountain of newspapers or behind the frozen pizzas in the freezer.  sometimes eren hears him walking around at two in the morning, sneaking past eren on the couch to grab his guitar off its stand before slipping back into his room to quietly pluck at the strings.  he avoids talking about his smoking around eren even though he constantly reeks of nicotine and smoke that scratches the back of eren’s throat.

he’s different.  eren doesn’t like it.

.

he comes home that day to find jean conspicuously missing from his usual spot on the couch.  in his place is a package, the cardboard flaps flung open and bubblewrap spilling over the upholstery.  eren blinks.

he pulls one of the flaps out of the way to peer inside, and finds what he thinks is a very skinny, very bland-looking tank top.  ‘what is this?’ he asks, before he realizes that there’s nobody to hear him.

he strides back to jean’s room, kicks the door open with a foot a _little_ too violently, holds the shirt up to jean and asks, ‘what’s this?’

jean, who had been lying in bed reading a book, sits up.  ‘what?’

eren shakes the tank top at him.   _‘this.’_

jean blushes.  eren balks.  ‘just put it on,’ jean says, waving a hand.  he allocates his gaze to his sheets, rather than at eren’s face.  his mouth goes dry.

‘okay, but what is it?’

huffing, jean stands up.  ‘you’ll figure it out once you put it _on.’_

eren squints.  jean crosses his arms.

‘fine,’ eren grumbles after a long moment of silence.  he’s still frowning when he tosses the thing at jean and pulls his t-shirt over his head by the back of the collar, discarding it on the floor of jean’s bedroom.

he holds a hand out, gesturing for jean to give him back the tank top.

jean hesitates.  ‘those too.’

he’s pointing at the bandages wrapped around eren’s chest.  jean glances down, at eren’s boobs and then his feet.

eren blinks.  ‘why?’

jean sighs.  ‘just do it, eren.’

eren grits his teeth.  jean has always been pushy and obnoxious and goddamn superior with his stupid -- stupidness.  it’s not anything new.  he’s annoying.  he’s always been annoying,

jean makes some irritated noise deep in his throat.  eren blinks.  he’s always been annoying.  ‘look, i’m just trying to -- you could just accept the fucking thing and trust me, eren, it’s not actually all that -- ‘

eren unhooks the little metal clasp, peels the bandages off, and lets them fall to the floor.  

jean snaps his mouth shut, teeth colliding with a little _click!_  eren’s pretty sure jean is staring, but can’t find it within himself to actually pay attention.  instead, he takes a deep, deep breath in, letting his lungs expand to their full capacity, filling with dusty air and the loose particles of jean’s laundry detergent.  god, he forgot how good _breathing_ feels.

after a long moment, eren opens his eyes -- when had he closed them? -- he finds jean staring at him, light blush across his cheeks and breath held tight in his lungs.  eren raises his eyebrows.  ‘you’ve seen boobs before, jean.’

jean sucks in a sharp breath, glancing away.  ‘i -- ‘ he says, all breathy and indignant like he’s about to start on a long rant.  but instead, he seems to close up a little bit -- shut his mouth, cross his arms -- and huffs out, ‘whatever.  just fucking put it on.’

eren pauses.  the undercut is missing, sure, but jean grumbles in the same way, curses in the same way, still crosses his arms like a petulant child.  he treats eren the same way.  maybe he’s just been here so long it’s started to feel familiar.

eren shrugs the thing on without a second thought.  he has to fight to pull it over his head and shoulders, losing his head somewhere in the fabric.  

after a second he feels jean’s hands join his in pulling the thing down eren’s stomach.  he tugs at the straps until it sits straight on his torso, twisting the bottom until the seams line up with his sides.  ‘how’s that?’

eren glances down at his own chest.  he blinks.  ‘holy shit.’

jean laughs in that way he does that sounds like the physical embodiment of a smirk.  it sounds like something that must’ve risen out of the collective unconscious.  ‘told you,’ he says.

normally eren would say something snarky back, but in this particular instance eren finds himself too distracted to even care.  ‘that’s so _flat,’_ he says, running a palm up and down his chest.

jean laughs again.  it’s just the right level of mean -- mostly familiarity with a thin edge of mockery -- to settle warmly in his gut.

‘shut up,’ eren says, swatting at jean’s arm.  then, ‘holy shit,’ once again.  he pulls at the sides, the straps, the plane of material pressing his breasts into his chest.  ‘it doesn’t hurt,’ he says.

jean blinks.  ‘it hurt?’

‘like hell,’ eren mutters, staring down at his own chest.  ‘how the _fuck,’_ he says, momentarily surprised by how amazed he sounds out loud.  he runs hands down his chest once more, then takes in a deep breath.  a _real_ deep breath.  not as deep as he possibly could, but -- close.  ‘how does this work?’

jean shrugs.  ‘it’s so -- ‘  eren doesn’t finish his sentence, because something white-hot and elated zings through his stomach.  feels like being throws against a shore littered with craggy, sharp rocks, but -- in a good way.  like being smothered with something wholeheartedly good.

it takes eren a second to finally glance up at jean, but when he does the look in his eyes hits eren like a brick over the head.

jean is the same.

it’s not just a learned familiarity, not just the last few months ingrained into his mind, because the hot gush of _feelings_ that bubbles up in his stomach is not from his era, from this lifetime, but a relic from the past unwrapped and set free in eren’s brain and bones and bloodstream.  jean takes walks and plays guitar and eats cereal and smokes, but -- the way he looks at eren, all soft and easy and effortlessly alive -- eren remembers:

he remembers jean with hair all the colors of a dying star with a look in her eyes like she’d found home in metal walls and threadbare sheets; remembers jean on his knees with his mouth hot and tight around eren, his eyes like this, of all things, is easy; rubbing sleep out of his eyes with a big, unconcerned yawn; the announcement ringing out through the halls, bouncing off the bulkheads, his superior attitude and only adequate skill, grasping the fabric of eren’s shirt tight in his hands after eren had just punched him in the face, remembers the anger and then the fear, the fear and then courage, the body swinging limp from the showerhead.

‘you haven’t changed at all,’ eren says.

jean squints.  ‘what?’

‘you’re still a huge, softhearted asshole.’

his lips part, he gets that little crease in between his eyebrows and eren doesn’t even care.  ‘what the -- i just did something _nice_ for you, ass -- _you’re_ the ass -- ‘

eren leaves in and gives him a hug.

‘um,’ jean says.  he doesn’t move to pull away.  ‘are you okay, jaeger?’

eren rests his head in the crook of jean’s neck.  ‘yeah,’ he says.  he breathes in the smell of jean’s laundry detergent and the lingering smog of cigarette smoke.  “yeah, i’m good.”

he can hear jean swallow before he wraps his arms around eren’s shoulders.  “i was just -- i was thinking a while ago, that, i, uh.”  he swallows again.  eren holds him tighter.  “i don’t really get it, i mean -- “ a breath, ruffling the strands of eren’s hair.  “i was fine, last time.  well, i was fine with being -- having -- boobs and...stuff.”  eren swears he can feel the heat rising of jean’s face, and smiles.  “and i know it’s -- i don’t get it, but -- “  he cuts himself off with a loud, miserable groan.  “i wanna help you not feel like shit.”

eren tightens his grip around jean’s waist until he hears a little choked noise of protest.  “thanks,” eren says.  “thanks.”

jean chuckles.  “happy to be of service,” he says.  it’s only kind of sarcastic.  he ruffles eren’s hair.  “you’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

eren breathes, long and slow.  jean is all different, but still the same.  all the stuff that matters is the same.

maybe he could apply that idea to himself.

“yeah,” eren says.  “i know.”

.

‘can you start calling me ‘he’?’

his boss blinks at him.  his heart thunders heavy in his chest.  he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever initiated a conversation with her.

‘um,’ she says.  eren doesn’t even know her name.  she’s probably going to say no, or give him weird glances, the uncomfortable twist of her lips --

this was a stupid idea.

‘um, i -- ‘  eren picks it out like a bright-red light in a monochromatic painting.  not sure if it’s confusion or disgust or whatever, it shouldn’t be this _hard_.  ‘sure?’

eren works his way through a solid three breaths before that single word manages to filter through his thick skull and settle into his brain matter.  ‘what?’

‘sure?’ she says again.  the question rings more strongly.  ‘i mean, if you want us to, sure…?’

eren feels his mouth go dry.  ‘i’ll -- ‘ he points towards the other end of the store.  ‘go tell the others.’

she nods, smiling hesitantly.  ‘okay.’

.

the apartment’s steps -- slabs of concrete suspended between shaky strips of metal -- rattle underneath eren’s feet as he dashes up to the door, shoving the key in the lock with a shaky, frantic hand.  the brass numbers, drilled into the face of the door, are 2-4-3.  he grins.  he’s living with jean.

eren stumbles in the front door, which crashes against the doorjamb with and shudders back into place behind him.  “home!” he shouts, kicking his shoes off before trudging farther into the apartment to find jean.  “jean!” he calls, only kind of annoyed that he didn’t receive an immediate response.

he gets back a grumble.  “would you quiet down, jaeger?  we have neighbors, you know.”

he’s in the kitchen.  eren can see his back over the edge of the counter, obstructed by the leaves of their bamboo plant, sitting in swampy water.

“they can go fuck themselves,” eren says, tossing his jacket on the loveseat.    he steps back into the apartment, over to jean.  he’s facing the stove, doing something with food -- eren doesn’t know (or care), he just laces his arms around jean’s waist and hooks his chin over jean’s shoulder.  he has to go up on the tips of his toes to manage it.

jean sighs.  eren can hear a smile in it.

he lives with jean kirstein.

a week ago eren had gotten him to trash a pack of cigarettes, mouth all guilty and remorseful and just a little resentful.  he hadn’t said anything about it not being eren’s business.

“how was your day?” jean asks.  eren has to put some of his weight on jean’s shoulders in order to stay upright in this position.

he shoves down the urge to answer _fine_.  “it was okay,” eren says.  he knows it’s a loaded question.  his boss -- her name was liza -- had slipped on a ‘she’ three times that day.  she had apologized.  it’s getting better.

“nice,” jean says.  it sounds genuine.

eren pushes his heels back into the floor, dragging jean down with him.  his back curves like the limb of a bow before he finally gives in and squirms out of eren’s hold.  “jaeger!”  he twists around to face eren, who takes the first chance he gets to hook his fingers into jean’s belt loops.

“wanna fuck me?”

jean’s mouth flaps open.  between the round cheeks, the big eyes, and the general slackjawed thing he has going on, eren thinks he might look more like a fish that a horse in this universe.  “i -- what?”

“do.  you.  wanna.  fuck me?”  eren’s feeling good today.  he thinks he could handle that.  he’d like to be able to handle that.  

(back in the first universe, he was strong.  he was stronger than jean, had more willpower, stuck around the ship until the cavern in his stomach opened up into a ravenous maw, consuming every cell of its body it could before he finally died, fought tooth and nail and claw until he finally kicked the bucket.  he wants that again.)

“do you -- in the -- “ jean stutters, his cheeks a mess of red and blotchy cream.  “you mean -- ?”

“you’ll need condoms,” eren says, by way of clarification.

“i have condoms,” jean replies.

the stove sizzles.  two weeks ago eren had got his hair cut as short as he could.  jean had suggested, with a stupid grin, that he get an undercut.

“good,” jean says.  “we have food.”

eren tilts his head.  “eat, then sex?”

jean gives him an uneasy look.  for a solid few seconds, eren thinks it’s solely because of his frankness.  “are you sure you wanna do that?”

eren frowns.  he takes a step towards jean, backing him against the stove and pinning him in with an arm on either side.  “yes, i’m sure,” he says.  “i know what i want.”

it’s a lie.  eren has no idea what he wants.  

(other than jean, anyway eren can get him -- it’s taken him a while to realize that cheesy, domestic, and careful might be even better than jean when he’s dying.)

jean swallows.  his adam’s apple bobs in his throat.  “okay,” he says.

eren smiles.  “good.”  awesome.

he thinks he can learn to like this.

the charred scent of food burning delivers the final blow to their already-dying conversation.  “shit!” jean says, and twists back around.  eren lets him go.

yesterday he had caught jean smoking out on the patio, so early the sun had barely risen over the thicket of trees giving aegis to the park across the street.  the day before that eren had looked into the mirror and thought to himself, _i want to die_.

things don’t fix themselves that fast, he knows.  eren had snuffed the cigarette out under his shoe.

things are getting better.

he probably won’t have to learn to love this jean.

 

 

the end

 

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: don't be a dick to your neighbors like jean and eren


End file.
